


The Poet, the Android & the Man from the Sky

by callmelyss



Category: Black Mirror (TV), Paterson (2016), Star Wars Sequel Trilogy
Genre: Crack Treated Seriously, Criminally Soft, Domesticity, Eventual Redemption, Eventual Romance, Eventual Smut, M/M, Multiverses, Pretentious Allusions to Modernist Poetry, Robot/Human Relationships, Slice of Life, Two Cinnamon Rolls and a Grenade, Vignettes, kylux adjacent
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-06-05
Updated: 2019-06-05
Packaged: 2020-04-08 08:18:37
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,085
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/19103278
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/callmelyss/pseuds/callmelyss
Summary: Hux falls—and falls—all the way to Paterson, NJ.**On hiatus. Will be back in 2020!**





	The Poet, the Android & the Man from the Sky

**Author's Note:**

> With love to [Huxilicious](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Huxilicious/pseuds/Huxilicious) and [jeusus](https://archiveofourown.org/users/jeusus/gifts). 
> 
> —
> 
> This is just a wild bit of quirk I tinker with from time to time. New chapters will be, um, periodic? And ratings/tags will update as the story does. I'll add any relevant points to the notes.

 

Hux dreams of implosions.

The ships exploded, too, of course, once the collapsing hulls crushed the engines cores—bursting blossoms of flame and twisted steel—but he remembers the contractions most. How they crumpled, from the mighitest of his dreadnoughts to scores of single-pilot TIE-fighters. Squashed, as though by an unseen fist. The weapon turned against them. His weapon. And Ren’s. The greatest power the Galaxy had yet seen. It swallowed them all whole.

He dreams of the escape pod spiraling, the stabilizers karked, the stars spinning through the viewport. He dreams of the event horizon. That yawning infinity. Of falling.

 

* * *

 

He wakes with a sharp intake of breath and jolts upright. His hand goes for his blaster, but it’s not there. His belt isn’t there either, nor his jodhpurs. None of his uniform. He’s wearing a pair of loose pants, tied with a drawstring at the waist. A t-shirt with faded lettering. Someone pulled a blanket over him during the night. The room is quiet, blue, empty.

“Oh, you’re awake,” a voice says from the doorway. “Good morning.”

His own face stares back at him.

Or near to it. The features are right—softer, true, around the jaw, and the hair’s all wrong—but he knows he’s never looked so gently at anyone. That his eyes have never shone like that, clear gray-green, nothing dissembling in them. Earnest.

And _lifelike._ Remarkably so, for what he is.

“Good morning,” Hux replies, wary, the details returning slowly, as they do every day. His head is still tender from the crash. It takes a moment for the android’s name to come to him. Powdery. Gray. In the wake of fire. “Ash.”

He smiles immediately in response. Unspoken: _well done_. 

Hux wants to scowl at him, but he can’t quite manage it. May smile himself. Or maybe his mouth only relaxes. “Where’s—?” The other one. Tall, dark-haired. He pulled him from the wreck, from the water rushing in, _easy, easy, I got you._ “At work?”

“Paterson?” Ash supplies. He doesn’t _sound_ like Hux, at least. Speaks in a seaside brogue. “No, he’s downstairs writing. It’s Saturday.”

 “I see.” He thinks he does. _Saturday_ , he repeats to himself. A rest cycle, perhaps.

“Are you hungry?” Ash asks, as he has every morning. Six of them so far. They’ve given him a stylus and a small blank book to keep track. Paper, of all things.

“Yes, I think I must be.”

 

* * *

 

Ash makes him tea and toast and eggs; he sits at the little table with him while he eats. The curtains, patterned in black-and-white, flutter next to the open window. Hux studies the green patch behind the house. Grass and a garden. Other homes, painted in pinks and creams and yellows, are clustered together for as far as he can see. The sound of children playing, laughing, echoes down the street. 

“What will you do today?” he asks Ash. “Do you have duties?” _Aside from minding me_ , he doesn’t add, although they both know that he’s done precisely that for the past week: tended his injuries, answered his questions, and watched over him.

Hux isn’t a captive here. Then, they’ve no need to imprison him. He’s a good as stuck.

Ash shakes his head. “They’re not duties. I’m not a servant,” he reminds him. “But I was thinking of going to the market.” He pauses, regarding Hux. “You could come with me if you like, since you’ve been cooped up all week. Get some fresh air.”

It would be wise, yes, to see more of this planet where his pod fell. Not that it seems especially advanced, their robotics capabilities aside. “I could—accompany you, yes.”

“Great. That’s a plan.” Ash smiles again, and in no way should it comfort him. On his ship, he would distrust him immediately, suspect an assassination plot or worse. But here on this small blue planet, in this small rose-colored house, improbable as they all are, he can’t but be grateful for something familiar, even if only himself. “I’ll find you something to wear.”

 

* * *

 

Hux is dressed in more of Ash’s clothes, a button-up shirt and trousers and rubber-soled shoes, and they’ve collected bags and supplies for shopping when Paterson emerges from the basement. He considers them with his usual—or, near as Hux can tell—air of curiosity and concern. “Hi there.” He greets Ash with a kiss to his cheek. “What are you up to?” Not at all how one would address a droid, even a trusted family droid. Nothing of orders in it.

“Farmer’s market,” Ash says. “Armitage is coming with me.”

“Oh yeah?” Paterson raises both eyebrows and looks between the two of them. “Is that—that’ll be good?”

“I think so. Thought we could walk there and take the bus home.”

“Okay. Got your pass?”

“And my phone.” Ash waves it.

“And your—?”

“Yep.” He lifts one arm, showing off a slim metal band, faintly blinking with white lights. “All set.”

“If you need anything, or. I could go with you.”

“If I need anything, I’ll call.” Ash cups both hands around Paterson’s face and kisses him softly. “Stop worrying. Go finish your poem.”

“Right. Okay. Have fun.” Paterson turns to Hux, as though remembering he’s there. “It’s, uh. Nice to see you up and around.” His deep voice uncertain, but no mistaking he’s sincere.

He doesn’t know that he’ll get used to it, these people with their too-honest faces, all the feeling written there and in their words, too. Affection. Concern. It crawls over his skin, prickling. “Thank you.”

 

* * *

 

They’re not far from the house when Hux gestures to the device on Ash’s wrist. “Does that serve some special purpose?” At his best guess, it’s a tracker, in case Ash should go missing. But why it's not installed internally, rather than somewhere so simply removed, he cannot imagine.

“It’s so I can leave the house on my own,” Ash explains. “There’s a mandate in my programming that requires I be within twenty-five feet of my Administrator or my activation point at all times. This projects a dummy signal indicating that’s the case. It’s a sort of workaround.”

“Your mobility is so limited?” It’s not so surprising, in its way. Ash is obviously a valuable piece of technology, although he can think of a dozen better security measures. 

“Humans still find androids unsettling.” He taps the bracelet and frowns until the lights begin their proper sequence again. “It’s a bit finicky at times; that’s why Pat worries.”

“I could have a look at it,” Hux volunteers before he can think better of it. But it would be nice to have _something_ to do. And not the worst idea to be helpful to the people sheltering him. For the time being. 

“I—maybe,” Ash allows, expression doubtful. “I appreciate the offer.”

Hux glowers, recognizing his skepticism. “I’ll have you know, I’m _excellent_ at mechanics,” he snaps. An engineering genius, in fact, he could say. Plenty of others have, even when they weren’t licking his boots. “You should be so lucky.”

He laughs and nudges him with one elbow. “No need to throw a jeb over it. It’s the only one I’ve got, that’s all. It’ll be difficult to find another.”

“I’d be careful,” Hux says. Trying not to sound sulky. Failing, he suspects. 

 

* * *

 

Markets, at least, seem to be an intergalactic constant. Tents. People browsing, haggling. Exchanges of—some paper currency. Or little plasteel squares, scanned for the same. Even many of the wares look somewhat familiar. Something reassuring about that. It is strange, however, to be in public without guards or credits or even his identicard. All he has are the dog tags hanging around his neck, declaring his name and rank, and they’re meaningless here.

Then, elsewhere, they would be a death sentence.

He follows Ash from tent to tent, watching the sentients around him. They all seem to be human, near as he can tell, although Ash has indicated there are other thinking beings that live in the oceans and far-off forests. He showed him footage on the Holonet.

None of the people in the market seem to be aware there’s an off-worlder or an android in their midst. The most anyone remarks is that they look like twins.

“That we are,” Ash agrees, readily enough. “How much for the blueberries?”

Hux moves a few steps off, pausing to examine a display of pastries. It’s been years since he's had anything homemade; everything he eats is a product of the _Finalizer_ ’s galley or else imported from elsewhere. But his earliest memories are of things like this: hand-decorated, asymmetrical. 

“Care for a sample?” the woman behind the table asks.

Hux accepts a small piece of bread dusted with sugar. “Ah, thank you.”

It’s sweet and warm and fresh. Yes, just like—

The world wavers, blurring green and blue.

“There you are, Armitage,” Ash says. His hand closes around Hux’s arm, steadying him. “Hey. You look a bit peaky. Is it your head?”

Hux doesn’t brush him off right away. The skin against his—not really skin, he knows, synthetic—is impossibly smooth, soft. “Only a dizzy spell,” he lies.

“Hang in there. We’re nearly done.”

He doesn’t regret it when Ash lets him go.

Hux sticks closer to him as they do the rest of the shopping: more produce, bread, eggs, milk (white, bizarrely). Some of the merchants seem to know Ash and greet him by name. Several ask after Paterson. He’s easy, friendly with all of them. It’s almost like following his own shadow, a dream-self. Like he may not even be here. 

 

* * *

 

He helps Ash carry the bags to the bus stop. There are others waiting for the transport, several on comms units, others talking. A young boy, nine or ten, too old for the stormtrooper program, watches the two of them, his face curious. Hux returns his stare, unblinking, until the bus arrives.

They’re on the way back, talking about the combustion engine and petroleum dependence, when Ash gives a slight twitch next to him, and there’s a tic under his right eye. He curls and uncurls his hands in time with the pulse of it. His right leg is bouncing.

“Are you malf—are you unwell?” Hux hisses, turning towards him on the seat. No one else seems to have noticed or be paying attention. “Ash?”

His jaw is clenched too tightly for him to answer. He lifts his arm with the bracelet, its repeating sequence of lights. Except it isn’t flashing.

“Kriff.” He taps the device a time or two, waiting for it to reset. There’s no time to look at the interior wiring now, to figure out how the bloody thing works. And, no, it doesn’t especially matter to him, what happens to this android, except his wellbeing is certainly at risk, too, if something should happen to Ash. Hux takes his arm and squeezes. “It’s all right. We’re almost there, yes?”

Ash nods, although his eyes are bright. He’s forgotten to mimic breathing, or else is off-tempo. He leans, just so, against Hux, and that rhythm evens out, _expand, contract, expand, contract_.

Hux strokes his arm, haltingly. Is this how _he_ looks in distress? That fragile? 

It seems eons, just that, his fingers moving, fumbling along Ash’s arm, the two of them breathing—or pretending to breathe—in time, the bus juddering down the road, before Ash’s spasms stop all at once and he relaxes, head tilting briefly towards his before he resettles in his seat as though nothing has happened. “Thank you,” he says quietly in Hux’s ear.

“Think nothing of it,” he says, straightening and looking forward. 

Some minutes pass before he remembers to take his hand away.

 

* * *

 

Later, much later, when the groceries are in the cupboards and lunch is made, then dinner; and Ash has given him more holos to watch on the computer; and Paterson reads them both a poem, _The streetlamp said_ , that Hux doesn’t understand; and Ash and Paterson go for their evening walk, leaving him, trusting him, in the house alone (except there’s nothing to find, he’s determined, only books of poetry and two photographs on the bedside table); and they tell him goodnight; and Hux lies on the couch and listens to the pair of them talking in their bedroom about what occurred on the bus, _nothing happened, please don’t worry;_ then, he opens the little notebook and makes a mark for seven and writes below it:  _Saturday, blueberries_ , _buses_.

 

**Author's Note:**

> Thank you for reading! <3
> 
> ([Twitter](https://twitter.com/callmelyss1)


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